Goldfish
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: More of me noodling around playing with ideas and snatches I've managed to watch from the new episode: I'm still limited to spoiler reviews and YouTube clips, so my overactive imagination does all sorts of wild things with the fragments. Mycroft and Sherlock discuss goldfish. Romance implied...


Sherlock stalked across the office, suddenly burning with intent awareness. "Why, Mycroft! Who'd have thought it. You've taken up a new hobby." He smirked, stalking around the back of Mycroft's desk, glee dripping from every pore.

Mycroft remained as he was: calm, quiet, bent over his paperwork. He flipped through several more pages in the cardstock binder, tutting. He signed several pages, and initialed others. Only after a moment did he pause, and say, as he reached for a new file, "I have no idea what you're on about, Sherlock. I don't have time for 'hobbies.' Hobbies are for crazy recluses with nothing to do with their time but fuss over trivialities."

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock crooned. "One could always take up…aquariums. Goldfish, perhaps."

Mycroft initialed a page with a bold "M", and said in a voice of ice and tundra, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Little things, aren't they, goldfish? Or maybe it's not a goldfish. Maybe it's a canary. Or a cat. Or a cocker spaniel. Or a parrot. I'm told parrots prove a lot smarter than people expect going in."

"Sherlock, I do hope your chemical activities haven't started again. This is no time for you to succumb to that."

Sherlock leaned against the bookshelves behind Mycroft's desk. "Oh, don't insult us both, brother. This isn't a problem with me. It's a change in you. Shall I do the deduction, or are you willing to let it go as obvious?"

Mycroft sniffed, and ignored him. Sherlock's eyes flashed, touched with anger and resentment. "As you will. It's clear enough. He pointed over Mycroft's shoulder, knowing his brother would sense the motion even if he didn't look. "Your calendar—you have it up on the monitor. No doubt you thought it among the least sensitive of possible files. You're careful…no words used, just color coding. No one unaware of your coding could easily determine what that calendar indicates, and I would not chance it myself on most topics. But there's a recurring blue top bar that only occurs during non-business hours. 'But,' you might say, 'Sherlock, all hours are business hours for a man in my position.' This is true, but not all hours are equally business hours. Meals, evenings, early morning—these remain less likely, and are the only time the mysterious blue bar occurs. A social contact, then, rather than a business contact. No places indicated—but then, again, you are careful not to include details on your calendar. It serves only to provide a visual element to reinforce your own memory. But…the days. Never too many days without contact. Never too long alone."

"You're being ridiculous, Sherlock. In my life there are a million commitments that fit those criteria."

"And you're not about to tell me what that one blue bar is. If it were regular reports to Herself over at The Palace, you'd tell me in a split second, Mycroft. But it's not Herself, is it?"

Mycroft straightened, and tidied his files into a desk drawer. He reached out and flicked off the screen of his computer, sending the calendar away. "You're on a… fishing trip, Sherlock. Pity you're not going to catch anything."

"Oh, I've already caught my prize fish, brother dear. Really. Sentiment." Sherlock practically bounced across the room to the wall opposite the desk. "Your taste, as usual, is prosaic. Etchings of government buildings—as though bureaucracy ever inspired great architecture. Ian Fleming's own illustration of James Bond—a little joke to yourself? One you can afford because, really, who besides a true aficionado would recognize the image rather than, say, Daniel Craig? Or Sean Connery? And then, amidst all the stuffy faff and fuss… this." Sherlock leaned closer, admiring the small image in a simple frame set near the small light on a lawyer's bookcase. "Japanese work?"

"American," Mycroft said—and his voice was uneasy. "An American artist. Modern."

"American, then. Two goldfish, a dark and a dappled, half hidden by shadows and autumn leaves, in a pond touched the exact blue as blue-bar days."

"Koi, actually."

Sherlock turned, then. "Your voice is shaking, Mycroft. Still planning on denial?"

"Did you learn nothing from our little dénouement with Moriarty? Did you think I learned nothing? There is no goldfish, Sherlock—and I would leap from St. Bart's myself to prevent anyone from finding one, if there was." Mycroft came up behind Sherlock, and one black-gloved hand reached out for the little painting glowing in the light of the one small lamp.

"Leave it," Sherlock said, without turning around. "No one will notice but me. Just change the bar code. Lime green, perhaps. No one would connect lime green with sentiment."

Behind him Mycroft shuddered—but allowed his hand to fall, and the picture to remain. The dark carp and the brilliant leaf-fall dapple swam behind the veil of shadows and maple leaves.

"Will I ever meet him, brother-mine?"

Mycroft snorted. "Meet who?" he asked, and led the way toward the office door, his umbrella swinging from his hand.

Sherlock froze. "You… Mycroft? I already have, haven't I?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, little brother," Mycroft said. "Be sure the door locks behind you. Best to keep everything safe and secure."


End file.
